​​”Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears for they are rain upon the blinding dust of the earth, overlying our hard hearts.”

~ Charles Dickens

I’m afraid I don’t have the energy to think too much, I’m tired like I’ve been running all day. I’ve seen the sun and the rain, the evening breeze did help my flaming soul, I’m grateful and I’m blessed.

I’m blessed with love with an honest heart. And long back when D. H. Lawrence said in Lady Chatterley’s lover that I don’t want a woman who does not piss and shit or is afraid to admit she does, I found it sweet and romantic but now it occurs to me how deep and important that lesson is.

Of all things we’re afraid of, the most frightening is the truth. Unchangeable. Unyielding. To be adored is beautiful but to be accepted is such a strong emotion that it literally shakes the foundations of anything you’ve ever felt.

I was told that to be capable of loving someone is to find solace in this world. Maybe that is true but what do we do of a heart that at one moment begs to be conquered and at the other strives to be free
“You pierce my soul. I’m half agony, half hope.” ~ Jane Austen

I’m calling all angels to bring me some respite. I’m calling all angels to hold me as I fall asleep tonight.

As I sit at this bar stool leaning over my drink, typing these words incessantly on my phone, I can feel the world slowly fade away behind me. Sipping cranberry flavoured vodka, I let my words scream louder than the electronic dance music that’s being blasted. They need to be released so here I am.

From a very young age I have been aware of the fact that women are treated a bit differently, condescendingly, inhumanly in that order. Eventually it was the books I read that told me about this fight, which has been fought since time immemorial, which is constantly being fought each second. For every time I read something sexist, something demeaning; I’ve come across people who support women, some partial towards, some even put them at a higher pedestal than men.

The important thing to understand is that this war, this fight for being treated as one is born, is not confined to the conventional ways in which women are constantly told they aren’t good enough. A woman must be treated as an individual, an individual who is bad at one thing and possibly good at several others and vice versa. The fight for my place in the society has to be fought everyday, but a woman’s fight is not against men. It’s against anyone who tells her she isn’t worth being free, it’s against anyone who tells her that her flaws are because of her genitals.

Why? Why are we constantly ashamed of being ourselves? I constantly meet women who don’t want to be seen eating too much or wanting too much sex. I meet women who are ashamed of liking things just because they fall in the stereotypical category of ‘women like’. Women who are ashamed of loving one man, women who are ashamed of wanting many. Women ashamed of not wanting a child, women ashamed of wanting women. Why are we so ashamed of the things we love? Why should we not love things and yell that we love them from rooftops till we fill the sky with our love? What’s holding us back?

No I’m not ashamed of wanting a man who is capable of treating me like a woman. I’m not ashamed of holding a hand that gives me strength. I’m not ashamed of being loved for my flaws, I’m not ashamed of being accepted, cherished even. I don’t want a man who tells me I can’t. I don’t want a man who’s afraid of the energy my soul contains. I want a man who pushes me, who challenges me, who’s at one time my anchor holding me and at the other a mirror showing me who I truly am. I want a man who is unashamed of loving a woman in her entirety. I have, rather.

I can with no hesitation declare this week to be one of the most adventurous and life changing week ever. There’s so much to say and you know I’m going to be vague AF. But I need to put a bit of this here.

A bit of trivial information, been on bed since the past four days or so. Caught a terrible cold, I’m better now. But being on bed when you have too much to contemplate can make one very restless. Made me.

I know I should get to the point so here it is. About a week ago had been forced to attend this particular farewell party one of our family friend was throwing for his son who’s about to leave for the USA to complete some Master In Surgery/ Medicine/ somedickdontaskme. And of course he wanted everyone to know , let’s not go there. Anyway, I had to wear a dress and spanx. I’m sorry my male readers but can we talk about this for a second? Spanx fucking suck you up in to a tube so your bottom looks picture perfect, Marilyn Monroe style but your thighs feel like they’re in prison and my va-jay-jay felt so gloomy sad and claustrophobic. We ( me and my, you know, privateparts) weren’t so happy about the whole set up at first, but when I looked into the mirror I can’t deny it made me happy. But the moment I walked out of the house, it was pouring heavily. The sky was a shade of grey and it just made me feel very depressed. The silence in the car wasn’t helping. By the time I reached the party, I had put on this mask of happiness and enthusiasm but someone who knew me could easily tell I wasn’t having a good day.

It was there, when I met people I last met in 2010 or something I realised how far I’ve come from what I was. I could see the surprise, the shock in their eyes. Like a snake sheds its skin, painful as it was I had done the same. And I was completely conscious of this fact, what I did realise in midst of people chattering is the fact that it is time, again, to shed my skin. I’m the kind of person (I’m sure you know) who constantly curses time and yet adores it. I keep memories close to my heart. But I never analyse them too much. I hate taking life so seriously.

When people started bringing up all sorts of incidences from the past, in the beginning it was all fun and games. But eventually it started triggering in me an anxiety attack. I didn’t want anyone to know so I quietly went by the bar and picked up a glass of wine. As I was nursing my drink, the guy who’s farewell party it was, came by and started forcing me to dance. I know I was dressed suitably to dance, I know I can dance, and at any other occasion I wouldn’t have said no. But as he pulled me to the dance floor and pulled me closer, I found myself hating my younger self, hating the fact that I ever let myself be devoured by circumstances and I hated myself even more because in spite of hating my younger self for all the chaos, I loved her, empathized with her and I knew that she did the best she could. I was feeling too much and I wasn’t in a mood to be groped so I went stiff for a moment and the next moment I found myself walking off the dancefloor giving the guy a disgusted look. The rest of the evening was a bit of a relief (because time solves most problems, and what time can’t solve, wine helps forgetting).

That night when I came back home, I was lying on my bed staring at the ceiling. My bed was wet, my legs hurt with the heels, but my heart for some reason was smiling. That’s when I decided that maybe it truly is time. To love more fearlessly. To live more whole heartedly. To believe in that little girl who’d walk through fire for what she loved. Once again.